


Hot Italian Nights

by hubblegleeflower



Series: Parallel Lives [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Call me by your name, Daddy Kink, Freelamet, Large age gap, M/M, Martin makes really sure Timmy means it, Martin's Call Me By Your Name moment, Pining Timmy, Sort Of, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, and Timmy means it, but everyone is legal, martin freeman - Freeform, the pairing no one knew they needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-04-26 03:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14393127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: Martin is in Rome, and has joked (halfjoked) that he'd had a Call Me By Your Name moment. He said he was talking about the atmosphere of the city, but he went along with the suggestion that he'd met some beautiful, strange boys...Martin, honestly, has no idea what he's doing, he's been alone for a while now and yeah, if a beautiful boy were to beckon, who knows. But right now he really just wants to leave this party and get back to his hotel so he can sleep because he knows how rough he looks right now.But someone else is lonely in Rome right now, someone who's had his own Call Me By Your Name moment, only his lasted for anywhere from 6 weeks to 14 months, depending on how you count it, and he's come back to Rome, knowing it was probably a bad idea, but this was the last place he'd felt...well, what he's hoping to feel again tonight. And he thinks Martin can help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [This post.](https://hubblegleeflower.tumblr.com/post/173009679813/hubblegleeflower-ok-whose-sex-should-i-write) This innocent post. And then stillnotamusedson comes up with this pairing because of [this interview](https://www.youtube.com/embed/Zuo3Ss6FFxU?feature=oembed), with the important bit giffed and shared by the talented rominatrix in  
> [this post](http://rominatrix.tumblr.com/post/172893095386/martin-freeman-and-his-call-me-by-your-name), and I wouldn't get into nearly as much trouble without all of these people to lead me astray, so thank you, folks, I really appreciate it.
> 
> Also, the first three chapters were posted first on Tumblr, but Chapter 4 and any chapters that may follow will be posted here instead.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am making up stories loosely related to the personas of these actors. In other words, I'm using fictional characters based on the quasi-fiction that they show the public which may or may not have any connection to who they actually are but I will never know. I am just making stuff up.

“ _Half_ joking, did you say, Mr. Freeman?”

Martin, alone in Rome but for his publicist and a dozen Italian hosts, is heading down a dim hallway, away from the noise of the party, when he hears an insolent voice behind him. He looks up to see a long, thin frame leaned up against a wall, one leg bent at the knee, white sneaker flat on the plaster. A brazen grin in a face half-hidden by curls. A face he’s seen on a big screen, while feeling things he’d rather not admit to.

They haven’t met, but the twist of this boy’s mouth suggests he knows him anyway. And maybe he does. “Well, as I live and breathe,” Martin says. “Timothée fucking Chalamet.” He might be a little drunk.

Instead of replying, the kid grins some more. “A Call Me By Your Name moment,” he says. The look on his face doesn’t waver as he pushes himself up from the wall and takes a step towards Martin. The tilt of his chin should come with a warning.

“I was talking about the architechture,” Martin says. His eyes flick to the boy’s throat, calculating.

“Like fuck you were,” Chalamet shoots back. “You were talking about the Italian boys and their pretty fuckable mouths.”

He’s probably drunk, too. Or high. But the word  _fuck_  and  _fuckable_ seem made for this boy’s mouth, the plump way his lower lip cushions his teeth on the  _f_ , the wet sound of the  _b_ , makes the word almost onomatopoeic, coming from him. Like when he says it, he’s doing it. And when Martin hears it, he wants it.  _Jesus._  But again, whatever his game, Martin is not to be toyed with. He keeps his tone light. “If your mother could hear you now,” he says, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“My mom’s not here,” says the boy, taking another step towards him.

The kid’s eyes are dark and full of mischief, and he’s managing to smile and pout at the same time. But Martin isn’t quite that easy. Glossy curls and an impudent mouth are well and good, but Martin is forty-six years old and jet-lagged, and looks it, and knows it. A pretty boy might pass some time with him, but he knows better than to take it personally, or think it’s going anywhere.

And now the kid lowers his head, and looks up at him through very objectionable lashes, looks _up,_ which shouldn’t be possible, since he’s at least 5 inches taller than Martin. He takes one more step, right into Martin’s space, and says, again, “My mom’s not here.” And then he wets his lip and adds, “But maybe my daddy is.”

And while part of Martin can see how his cock would look, resting on that plush lower lip, about to push inside, the rest of him has had enough of being played.

“Yeah, hi, my name’s Martin, nice to meet you, and yes, it’d be lovely if you sucked my cock, but it’s not going to happen, so why don’t you stop fucking with me and go find someone your own age to play with. Plenty of tossers here who’d be keen. Leave me the fuck out of it.” He glares unflinchingly into the boy’s face until he falters and takes a step back, then pushes past him to the door of the stairwell.

He’s halfway to the lobby when he realizes two things. One, he is (infuriatingly) half-hard in his trousers, and two, the door two floors up has opened and closed again, and tentative footsteps are following him down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin keeps walking and doesn’t look back until he’s out the main doors and halfway down the block. Then he stops, and looks straight ahead until the boy draws level with him. They stand a moment, not looking at each other. Even out of the corner of his eye, Martin can see the slump of Timothée’s shoulders and the hang of his head.

“I’m sorry,” Timothée says softly. “That was—that was way out of—that. I was out of line. I’m not—I’m not even that drunk.” He gives a short, embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry. But I…Everyone else at the party was Italian.”

The kid’s a little incoherent, but Martin—now he’s calmed down a bit—thinks he understands. He of all people can recognize simple loneliness when he sees it. He glances over at him, and sees a kid sunk in mortification and misery. A kid, above all. He sighs. “Well, walk with me for a bit, then.”

Timothée perks up. “Yeah?” He really shouldn’t look like such a puppy.

Martin smiles. A bit. “Yeah. Just don’t—” He takes a quick breath. “Don’t call me daddy again, all right?”

The kid’s face flames, but he chokes out, “Yeah, okay. Deal.” And they start walking.

It’s all right, Martin decides, walking along with this young golden boy. He’s just a regular bloke after all, friendly and open and keen to make up for…whatever that had been, back at the party. He points out a couple of sights as they walk, and Martin finds himself enjoying the boy’s company. No wonder everyone’s in love with him. Not just the astonishing eyes and mouth, then.

He tunes back in, realizes Timothée has just asked him a question. “Hm?” He hasn’t heard at all.

“I just said, what brings you to Rome? I thought there was all kinds of Avengers stuff happening in…in the States, wasn’t it?”

“In Asia, right now. But,” and here he gives a small chuckle, “I have nothing to say about that.”

Timmy laughs. “Yeah, I know, top secret, right? So what are you here for?”

Martin talks a bit about  _Ghost Stories_ , which engages the boy a lot less than  _Black Panther_ , and no one mentions  _Sherlock_  at all, which is fine. Timothée has a lot of questions about Martin’s take on publicity tours and press junkets. His interest seems genuine, and Martin talks more than he intends to.

“This is, you have to remember, none of it’s really…real. You get heaps of attention and, and really good food, for a while, but it’s not real life. When it’s over, you go back to your life and you have to decide what’s next, because the last thing is over now. It’s just. It’s over.”

Timothée smiles a little. “Yeah, that’s what—yeah.” He pauses a moment, then says, softly, “Armie says the same thing.” And all of a sudden his smile turns a little bleak, and Martin sees more than he wants to, right at that moment.

They walk on in silence for a beat or two, and then Martin can’t leave it alone any longer. “So, um. What brings you to Rome.”

Tim looks at him sidelong, shrugs a little. Doesn’t answer. Instead he says, “Come through here, I know this place. This way.”

He leads them down a narrow alley, and into a cobbled street. The sun set hours ago, but the city is well-lit at night. It’s a beautiful city— _romantic_ , as he’d said, which was stupid, it’s Rome, of course it’s romantic.

He’s taken a few steps on his own before he realizes that Timothée isn’t with him. They’re coming through an archway by a red-brown wall, and when he looks back, Timmy’s there. He’s not walking; he’s  _twirling_. Slowly, though, each step deliberate. His eyes are closed. His mouth is turned down. He ought to look maudlin, but he doesn’t. He just looks very, very sad.

On his next turn, Martin steps into his space and takes him by the shoulders. He doesn’t know what he’s planning, beyond stopping the slow, desolate turns, maybe just a hug or a bracing clap on the shoulders, but whatever it was, Timmy slumps between his hands and presses their mouths together, and his mind stutters.

The _softness_ of it, the softness of his young mouth, it’s almost overwhelming. The softness, and the barest tickle of new whiskers on his lip. The plush lips press and retreat, press and retreat, and this time when they press in again, there’s a tiny flicker of tongue, and everything is fresh, and so, so soft.

Martin would be the first to admit that he’s only sort of, or sometimes, a good man. This is the best offer Martin’s had in a long while, and there's plenty of not-soft in his life right now, so he kisses back, he does. It is some time before he pulls away.

Timmy looks at him—no, at his mouth. Looks ready to dive right back into the kiss, but for Martin’s hands on his shoulders. His eyes are heavy and dark and his mouth is a little bit open and  _oh, god, what the hell_?

“Why  _me_ , though?” Martin hasn’t planned to ask this, but it’s a fair enough question. Kid could have had his pick at the party.

Timmy shrugs, flicking his eyes up to Martin’s. “You weren’t trying. And you. Uh.”

“What?”

The dark eyes fall closed again. “You remind me of him.”

“You’re insane.” Martin doesn’t have to ask who they’re talking about. “He’s _eight feet tall._ ”

“Nah, but…still.” Timmy shrugs. “The way you dress, maybe. The way you…own the place.” He nods to the side. “We made out against that wall.” A pause. “I thought if I at least came here, even alone, I’d feel less…”

“Less…?”

“Lost.” His voice is a whisper.

“Let me guess. It didn’t work.” Martin’s heart breaks for him a little as he says it.

“No, it didn’t.” He steps away from Martin, and wanders over to the wall. Leans against it, head thrown back. Slides down a little, feet braced on the pavement. Stays there a long moment, eyes turned upwards.

Suddenly, he seems to come back to himself. “It did not work at all,” he says again. He pulls his head up from the wall, and pins Martin with his black-fringed gaze. His chin is dropped, and his hair has fallen in his face again. His mouth is just slightly open on a sly, lurking smile, his fingers are curled high on one thigh, and he lets his hips slouch just a little further down the wall. “So…have you got any other ideas?”


	3. Chapter 3

And yeah, looking at Timmy, Martin has a few ideas, he’s not going to lie to himself. The never ending, impudent slouch of him sliding down the wall, the way he’s got one arm bent behind his head, the way the fingers of his other hand are curling into the crotch of his jeans…yeah, Martin has a few ideas. But he dislikes being managed, or manipulated. Before he takes him up on what is so clearly on offer, Martin has to take this kid in hand.

Martin isn’t a tall man, but he knows how to take up space when he needs to. He does so now, glaring at him. “What are you looking for, a spanking? All playing the tart up against the wall?” He doesn’t step towards the boy on the wall, but he gives him his full focus. “A taste of the back of my hand’ll sort you out, if that’s what you’re after.”

Timmy shrugs, insolent. “Worth a try.”

“You little smart-arse. You think that little  _fuck me_  pout is going to make me stop asking awkward questions?”

“Maybe not, but actually fucking me might work.”

The little  _bastard_. Martin might actually put him over his knee. “Oh yeah?” He looks at him appraisingly. “And why would I want to do that?”

They stare at each other, Timmy somehow both sullen and sultry and—yes, and the tiniest bit hesitant. All of a sudden Martin thinks he prefers the bratty, impertinent Timmy to the sad, uncertain one, and does not want to find out how long it will take before his arrogant challenge turns into a plea. He does not want to watch that happen. So now he does take a step towards the boy.

“Look, Timothée—”

“Timmy.”

“Timmy—”

“Actually, Li’l Timmy Tim.” The impudent grin is back, to Martin’s relief.

“Don’t fucking push it, kid.” He takes another slow step. “I’m not saying no. You’re painting a pretty damn attractive picture over there.”

“Then come over here.”

Martin regards him for another long minute, trying to find a way to ask _Are you sure_ without being patronizing, trying not to say,  _do you know what’s really going on here, because I do, and I don’t want you to hate me in the morning_ , which he can’t say without assuming that he knows better than Timmy what Timmy wants.

The kid is an adult.  _Barely._  About to make a mistake. _Probably._  But Martin made many, many mistakes of this same kind in his twenties, and looks back on most of them quite fondly, actually.  _Stop worrying._ Yeah. _Look at his mouth, for chrissakes._  Yeah.

“Come over here, I said.” Timmy’s smile becomes soft. Kind. “Stop worrying, Martin.”

Jesus, he’s being understanding.  _Enough of this._  Martin lets his feet take him where the rest of him so badly wants to go.

The boy’s spread legs and long slouch have set his face at precisely the right height for Martin to set the palms of his hands hard on the stone wall on either side of his head, caging him. He finally lets his eyes roam all over Timmy’s face, and stops trying to hide his hunger as he does it.

He breathes there, taking in Timmy’s eyes, the angles of his face, trailing his gaze over every curve of his beautiful mouth. Timmy raises his chin, chases Martin’s mouth, but Martin’s done letting him call the shots on this. He evades him, takes his time and looks his fill.

Martin knows, now, how soft that mouth is, how ripe it feels against his own, but when he finally bends to take what’s his, there’s no more time for softness. He’s got some ground to take back; can’t have this brat thinking he’s in charge.

He’s rough, deliberately so, as he works his mouth over and into Timmy’s. His lips flex and grasp, and he uses his tongue to dart and thrust in between those pouty lips. He feels the exact instant Timmy submits to his onslaught, feels the muscles of his jaw relax against his insistent mouth. Feels his whole body go pliant, for all that only their mouths are touching.

Martin does not relent, though. At Timmy’s surrender, he presses his advantage and grasps the boy’s chin in his left hand, not gently, using his grip to tilt and turn, to arrange the angle to his liking. He tugs the boy’s face so his mouth drops open even further, and slides his other hand down the wall to Timmy’s waist.

Tim’s long arms are hanging loose at his sides, and Martin is struck with the urge to run caressing fingers down to his wrist, to wrap his slender fingers in his own rough hand, but he resists. Because actually this brat has already got Martin feeling tender, feeling fond, and while he can, at his age, manage that for himself, he’s pretty sure it’s not what Timmy needs from him right now.

Instead, he slides his hand up under Timmy’s loose-fitting shirt, runs his fingers over the silky skin of his side, around to where the two lines of muscle down his narrow back run under the waistband of his jeans. He flexes his fingers into that muscle, not scratching, but definitely claiming.Timmy sighs into his mouth.

It’s that sigh that undoes him. Abruptly, he releases his hold on Timmy’s face and brings his other hand to the bare, satin skin at the small of his back. Sinks both hands beneath his jeans and wraps his fingers under the kid’s skinny little arse. Ass, he thinks succinctly, in an American accent. It fits his hands.

One tug, and suddenly all of Timmy’s weight is resting, not on his spread legs, but in Martin’s hands, and his long legs come up to wrap around Martin’s waist. He shifts his grip, and brings Timmy’s pelvis in line with his own, and Christ, to be twenty-two again, because his cock is so hot and hard Martin can feel it through both their trousers.

“Fuck,” he says feelingly. “You are so goddamn hot.” He pushes his nose against Timmy’s long throat and breathes deeply, then swirls his tongue over the silky skin under his ear. No stubble. He murmurs nonsense into his hair. “Timmy. Li’l Timmy Tim.”

“That’s my name.” His words are flippant but his voice is breathless.

“Yeah.” Martin nuzzles deeper against his neck, scraping his teeth and reveling in the gasp by his ear. “Timmo. Timothée Chalamet.”

“Yeah.” Timmy’s legs tighten around his body. “What you gonna do about it?”

“Do?” Martin pulls him in, tight.  _ Hard.  _ “I’m going to  _ wreck  _ you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I've posted on Tumblr. From here on in it's likely to be porn. Next chapter coming soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They make it back to the hotel, and Martin is thorough, whatever else he may be, and does what he says he's going to do.

The taxi service in Rome is excellent. When Martin buries his face in Timmy’s neck, the better to draw his mouth along his collarbone, and rumbles, “Hotel?”and Timmy breathes, “Yes,” and his voice is already a little ragged, it’s a matter of twenty minutes or less before they’re outside the door to Martin’s room.

“Get in.” Martin pushes the door open and holds it while Timmy steps across the threshold. No sooner has the door clicked shut behind him than he’s back on Timmy’s neck, crowding him back against the wall, his hand sneaking up to the back of his head, his fingers winding through the wild curls. His other arm slides down, hooking around the narrow waist, gripping beneath his arse. _Perfect._ He drags his open mouth up the long throat, lipping at the delicate skin there, and revels in the full-body shiver that runs through the boy under his hands.

The way Timmy moulds himself to Martin’s body is glorious; his head tips back, tilts to expose even more of the creamy skin to Martin’s mouth, and his torso seems to lengthen, arching between Martin’s hands. Everything about him is soft and pliant and _willing_ , and Martin feels himself sinking down into it. He can’t think of the last time he felt so...so _welcome._

To be honestly desired. A current of gratitude trickles its way through the rising tide of arousal. Turns out he’s not too old for this after all.

He gentles his mouth and makes his way steadily, with lips and tongue, from beneath Timmy’s ear all the way down to the point of his shoulder. He pauses there to suck, not enough to leave a mark, but Timmy says, “ _More_ ”, and it’s almost a whine, so he brings his teeth into play and marks him.

The sight of the burst capillaries in the delicate skin lights a dark flame of possessiveness that goes straight to Martin’s prick, which has been sensibly saving its strength up to now. He feels it stir and harden, tightens his hands on Timothée’s body, and wants nothing more than to press as much of the lithe young body to his own as he can.

“Is this,” he rumbles, face somewhere back behind Tim’s ear, “Is this what you want?”

In answer, Timmy pulls back a little. He crosses his hands over his belly, grips the hem of his t-shirt, and pulls it off over his head. He tosses it over Martin’s shoulder, onto the bed.

Then he raises his long arms back over his head and crosses them at the wrist.

Martin’s sharp intake of breath is so loud, even he can hear it, but he could not care less in this moment, because there are endless long lines of eager young man stretched up along the wall of his hotel room. “Oh, yeah, that is, that’s—that’s gorgeous, sweetheart. Just stay like that for me. You’re a goddamn miracle.”

And it’s true, and he knows it’s not really for him, but if he is careful with what’s being offered then maybe he can justify having it anyway.

 _Let’s have it, then_.

Timmy’s neck draws him like a beacon. He reaches out with both hands and curls his fingers beneath the angular jaw, barely touching. His thumbs settle on the stretched-out throat, and begin to trace delicate lines up and down either side of his windpipe. He feels Timmy swallow under his fingertips and grins to himself. He tightens his grip fractionally, the merest suggestion of a squeeze, and hears Timmy’s breath catch. His own breath mirrors the sound, and he lets his thumbs overlap across Timmy’s throat. Strokes. Grasps. _Easy, Martin._

He lets his hands relax, lets them slip down the sides of Timmy’s neck and over his chest. He spreads his fingers wide, strokes them down the expanse of pale skin, feels every variation in the landscape: the tiny beads of his nipples, the ridges of each rib, the place where his ribcage gives way to the softer, more yieding flesh of his belly.

Flipping his hands, keeping his fingers spread, he draws his touch back up again, keeping it light, so light, but letting his fingertips linger over the rise of the ribcage, and catch on tight nipples. When he feels the hitch in Timmy’s breath, he flicks them again.

God, he’s responsive. Everything about this kid is light, is electric, like his skin is waiting to spark under Martin’s fingertips. Like there’s no wrong way to touch him, except to stop.

His nipples, _god._ Martin’s never spent much time on a man’s nipples before, but he spends time here. A few more flicks, a few more wriggles, and _ah_ , it’s lovely, but what would happen if he pinched, just a little, like... _this._

 _“_ Ah! Ah, ah god, god.” Timmy’s body almost jackknifes at the more-than-hint of sharpness, after the delicate stroking, and it’s brilliant, and Martin wants to see what will happen to Timmy if he takes the nipples in his _mouth._

He bends to Timmy’s chest, rubs his face against it, side to side, like a cat. He’s regrowing a beard, so it’s not as prickly as stubble anymore, but it’s not as soft as a beard, and Timmy groans at the sensation, pressing his chest forward to make it harder, rougher. He starts to turn his head a little with every drag, so that his lips can brush over the reddening buds, and _yeah_ , Timmy likes that too, so on the next pass, Martin opens his mouth to draw the flesh inside.

They’re so _small._ He’s working on the left one, and it’s hard to get a grip on it; it’s so _tiny_ , it keeps slipping out between Martin’s lips, he can’t get purchase to suck on it, and that’s what he wants, he wants the little nub of skin stretched out and in his mouth, so if he can’t do it with his lips, then maybe with his teeth…?

A moment later, Timmy bucks against the wall, shouting and groaning and _still not pulling away,_ and as much as Martin would like to see him come just from having his nipples bitten, he’s got bigger plans. Still, it’s maddening, this responsiveness, the arching and the writhing. Martin sleeps with people his own age, as a general rule, and has long since forgotten what it’s like to feel every little touch so intensely.

And it’s fucking _beautiful_ , a gift, unlooked for, and certainly undeserved. He plans to make it last.

He gentles his sharper bottom teeth with his tongue, and uses that to press the nipple against his upper teeth and _yes,_ that gives him enough of a grip to close his lips and _suck._

Timmy’s been tense up to now, stretching tighter and tighter at the escalating sensations. When Martin manages to pull that nipple in between his lips, he goes suddenly slack, like his strings have been cut; his arms come free, slide down the wall, and fall loose at his sides, and his breath, which has been coming in short gasps, flows out in a long sigh.

Martin pulls back a little, takes in the sight of him, lax, aroused, half-succumbed to this whatever-it-is that they’re doing together. His head has thumped back against the wall again. His mouth—that glorious mouth—is open, his eyes heavy-lidded. He’s looking at Martin through those half-open eyes, waiting to see what he’ll do next, already acquiescing.

Arms limp at his sides, and because this _absolutely isn’t a scene,_ Martin lets them stay there.

Time to back it off a bit, let him settle. “You all right?”

A breath. His eyes focus. “Yeah.”

“You look—I mean, really, you’re just gorgeous.”

A little smile. “Thanks.”

“But, uh…” It looks like his breathing is steadying. Martin lets his mischief well up in his face.

“Yeah?” Timmy hasn’t noticed yet, the danger he’s in.

“You might want to pace yourself a bit. Hold something in reserve.”

“What—?” Timmy blinks, seeks eye contact at last.

Martin feels himself grinning. “Because I’m just getting started.”  

***

 _Kiss._ It’s a soft word, but Martin keeps his mouth hard and his tongue firm, and takes control of Timmy’s mouth with it. With one hand, he grasps his chin, tilting his head and manipulating his angle so that Martin can take exactly and only what _he_ wants.

His other hand has been deceptively gentle as he stroked his knuckles up and down Timmy’s soft belly, but now he can’t help running it back up to Timmy’s chest, unerringly seeking out his reddened nipples, and closing around one for a pinch and a _twist,_ oh, _yes_ , and he gives him no respite but applies the same treatment to the other side.

His mouth under Martin’s is soft, making it difficult to keep up the unyieldingness of his onslaught, so Martin shifts to big, expansive, sloppy, licking into his mouth in wide stripes. Timmy’s been hard since Martin sucked the bruise that’s now purpling nicely on the side of his neck, but now, under Martin’s mouth and hands, his hips start to rock and Martin knows what he needs.

When he pulls away a moment later, Timmy’s jaw is slack again, he’s taking wet, panting breaths, and tongue resting broadly on his lower lip. _That’s better._ But Martin wasn’t kidding when he said he was just getting started. Time to move south.

He brings his hands down that long, lean stretch of ribs and belly and over the waist of his jeans, and begins to slide them up and down the outside of Timmy’s thighs. His touch is only just hard enough not to tickle. Up and down he goes, gradually moving inwards with each pass, but always stops his upward motion before he actually reaches Timmy’s groin, instead sliding down again, or outward.

Timmy groans each time Martin’s touch changes direction, and his pelvis moves in little hitching thrusts, actually _chasing_ Martin’s hand, trying to force the issue. _Brilliant._

Martin pulls away from Timmy’s mouth and chuckles darkly in his ear. “You want that, darling? You want my hand? Is that what you’re after?” He firms up the touch, digging the tips of his fingers into the scant muscle of his thighs through his jeans. “You want me to give you a little grab?”

Timmy groans at the harder touch, writhes again, chasing. “Yeah, yeah. Yes. Come on, yeah.”

When Martin ceases his teasing questions and finally grabs him, Timmy’s moan is loud enough to be heard, Martin is sure, everywhere on the whole floor of the hotel. _Excellent._

And now he’s there with his palm cupped around Timmy’s hard cock. It’s standing straight up in his jeans, which are loose and low-slung and do nothing to constain his all-too-eager erection. He cups one hand around the back of Timmy’s neck, and with both hands he grips, firmly. The feeling of control, of having Timmy caught between his hands, sets off a spiral of warmth and power that tingles in his gut. _Keep going._

Martin wants to make this _good._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not like this is an opportunity that's likely to repeat itself. Martin plans to make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little stung that no-one's tagged me for a CMBYN 10 but I'm okay, I'm fine, here, have 1.2k of more Freelamet PWP with my blessing.

After another long look up and down the pliant lines of Timmy's body, Martin gets to work.

“Open your legs for me a little, sweetheart, just a bit, yeah, there you are. Lovely.” 

_ Why don’t kids these days wear trousers that fit,  _ Martin thinks, grinning at his own absurdity. But the crotch of Timmy’s jeans hangs too low for Martin to curl his fingers round and roll his balls in his palm, and that rankles, it really does.

Luckily Martin is nothing if not resourceful. “I’m going to open up your jeans now. Is that okay?” And maybe it isn’t exactly fair that Martin asks the question while sliding his palm up and down Timmy’s hot prick, but he does wait for an answer. 

It’s a broken moan. “Oh god, yes, please.”

“Do you want me to?” Martin is scrupulous about consent. 

“Yes, yes.” Timmy presses his erection forward into Martin’s hand. There can be no doubt he wants it.

But Martin is also a bastard. “You sure? Do you want me to open up your trousers and touch you?”

“Jesus, Martin! Do it! Please. Fucking—yes!”

He’s twenty-two years old and begging for Martin to touch his cock. This is not at all what Martin’s life has been lately. So he smiles, now, and opens the jeans.

Timmy’s legs are spread. Martin congratulates himself—that was part of the plan. When Timmy starts to draw his knees together, the better to get his trousers down, Martin gives his thigh a whack to keep him still. “Open, I said. Did you forget?”

The boy looks at him, wide eyed, sees his stern face and blinks rapidly. “Sorry. Sorry, Martin.” He presses his knees apart again as Martin tugs down his jeans and boxers. Timmy’s spread legs stretch out the open jeans and the elastic of his boxer briefs, so that they can’t slide down very far. They stay put, framing the sparsely furred thighs, and lending just the right note of debauchery to the kid’s angelic look.  _ Perfect. _

Martin intends to draw this out, so he keeps his touch delicate and light, running up and down Timmy’s thighs, delighting in the quiver of the sensitive flesh. He doesn’t touch Timmy’s cock yet, though he looks his fill, oh yes, does not look away as Timmy twists and wriggles, chasing the touch he so desperately wants; his legs are constrained by his jeans and underwear, high on his thighs, and he just...can’t reach.

Timmy’s cock is hard and leaking now. When Martin stills his light stroking and instead  _ digs in _ with his fingertips, it actually  _ jumps,  _ and  _ christ,  _ was Martin ever this young and hot? Because now Timmy is moaning and writhing in earnest,  _ begging _ for Martin’s touch, and Martin’s hands stay stubbornly on his thighs, and this has no business being this fucking enjoyable.

“Please,” Timmy begs, “Come on, please, don’t, don’t tease… _ please. _ ”

“What? Please what?” 

“You said you’d, you’d...come  _ on. _ ” Timmy tries a particularly athletic thrust but Martin’s hands stay wherethey are.

“What do you want, here?”  _ God, I’m a bastard. _ “I’m touching you, like I said I would…?”

A desperate laugh, coupled with a groan. “Don’t be a bastard. Oh shit, come on, don’t be, don’t be…”

“What you want? Tell me.” Timmy’s wrecked voice is doing things to Martin. It’s not going to be hard to get off, when the time comes.

“Touch me.” He’s shy. They’ve come this far, and it’s  _ this _ that makes him embarrassed. Too gorgeous.

Aloud, Martin says, “I’m touching you.”

“Touch my, touch my, come on Martin...” 

And it’s killing Martin, he wants to know what word Timmy will use when he finally succeeds in making him say it, because he’s blushing, the kid is actually blushing, and Martin knows this isn’t illegal but it fucking ought to be.

“Touch what.”

Timmy squeezes his eyes shut over a squished up smile.  _ He’s going to say it, what’s he going to say? _ “My dick, okay? Touch my dick. Fucking hell.”

“Your ‘dick’. I see. I see….” He makes a quick move with his fingers, and then stops, and because Martin is an arsehole, and that will never change, he adds, “You sure?” 

At this, Timmy pulls his head away from the wall, opens his eys, and almost shouts. “YES! Fuck! Touch it! Take it! Please, I’m literally begging you, Martin,” and he’s laughing but he’s also almost sobbing, and the muscles in his thighs go tense as he tries to use what little purchase he can to tilt his hips towards Martin, and his mouth opens, and his breath is ragged, and Martin’s not sure anyone’s ever wanted him with their body as much as Timmy does right now.

He  _ still  _ draws it out. Timmy’s arms are still dangling at his sides, though his fists are clenched. Martin liked it better when they were up above his head, but he’s already pushing the kid’s vulnerability here, a lot for a one night stand, but he does plant a hand in the middle of his chest to keep him still, feels his heart hammering in his chest while he teases for one more pass with his other hand, fingers up and down inner thighs, delving in between this time, brushing over the soft down of his bollocks, tickling there.

Timmy’s frustrated moan grinds out of him and Martin almost laughs.

Whenl he finally wraps his hand around the long erection, all of a sudden, wraps his hand and  _ squeezes,  _ dragging his palm up to the tip, Timmy seizes up and practically  _ howls _ , and thrusts his cock into Martin’s hand, as much as he can, in short, desperate jerks that his anguished face says clearly are  _ not nearly enough. _

Martin can’t help it. For just a minute, he lets his control slip and goes hard, closing his fist around Timmy’s hot prick and pumping,  _ up down up down _ , ruthless, his other hand still pressed against the narrow chest. Timmy’s head is thrown back against the wall and his eyes are squeezed shut and his thick brows are drawn together and his breath hitches in and out with each desperate  _ ung ung ung,  _ sounds that come in time with the rhythm of Martin’s merciless fist.

Twenty-two was a long time ago for Martin, so he’s taken by surprise when, after less than a minute of his furious pumping, Timmy’s rhythm starts to falter, and his thighs begin to clench, and his body tenses.

Immediately, Martin slows his hand, pressing still on Timmy’s chest, but gentling the movement around his cock. He waits a moment, lets him settle. Lets him breathe. 

After a long moment, Timmy takes a shaky breath and opens his eyes. His pupils are wide, his lids are heavy, and his mouth is hanging open. But he looks at Martin now, from behind his desire-addled eyes, and there is a little awe in there, mixed with his arousal. It’s moving in a way Martin does not have the wit to identify right now, but he lets it sink into his chest next to the fondness he’s feeling for the boy, to be enjoyed now, and then tucked away so they won’t cause him problems later on.

“Do you want to come like this?” he asks gently. He doesn’t mind. Timmy can have what he wants from Martin, that’s become abundantly clear. If he wants rough handling up against the wall, if that will ease his melancholy, then he can have it.

But Timmy shakes his head and says, “No.” Then he levers himself off the wall, dislodging Martin’s hand on his chest, meets Martin’s eyes for a beat…

... _ and then sinks to his knees. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy has sunk to his knees on the floor of Martin's hotel room. What _could_ he be doing down there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate politely worded notes about typos and whatnot because honestly it's at the point where this has gained its own momentum and I just write as fast as I can to keep up with it and writing it is quite, um, stirring, and going back and reading it is beyond my powers.

Timmy is fucking _kneeling_ , he’s _kneeling_ at Martin’s feet, looking up at him through his lashes, with that _mouth,_ with that red, red mouth, and neither of them have been near Martin’s cock yet but for half a second he feels like he might come from just the sight of him, and this was _not in Martin’s plan._

He knows his eyes have gone round like saucers and he’s lost any claim to cool, calm, and collected, but this was not expected and it’s so goddamn beautiful.

After another moment of staring, Timmy raises his hands to the fastening of Martin’s belt, and he realises with a start that Tim is waiting for permission. He won’t go further until Martin says he can, and for one wild instant, he thinks he might say _no_ , might say, _no, don’t, get up, please, this was supposed to be—get up, please._

But Timmy is kneeling at his feet looking...eager. _Hopeful._ And Martin has already accepted that he’s not going to say no to this kid. It was sadness that brought him here, but it’s not coddling he wants.

He’s nodding. (How long has he been doing that?) He’s nodding, and saying, “Yeah, yeah, go on then,” and Timmy gives a sly, happy little smile, and unbuckles Martin’s belt.

And there is Timothée fucking Chalamet kneeling at Martin’s feet in his hotel room, opening his trousers and pulling down his pants until his cock is open to the air, and looking at it like it’s the one thing that’s going to save him from starvation. His lips are wet.

Martin, confident as he is, is at a loss. His breathing has gone shallow, his brow is knit, and his hands are curling and uncurling at his sides. His legs are already starting to tremble, and Timmy hasn’t even touched him yet.

The next moment, though, Timmy does. He raises his hand and grasps the base of Martin’s cock between his fingertips. Another second sees him delicately tilt Martin’s erection towards his mouth and no, he’s not wasting time, because in one swift motion he parts his lips and takes Martin’s cockhead and about half the shaft into his mouth.

The blood rushing to his groin leaves Martin seeing black spots in front of his eyes, makes his knees go weak, and for a moment he thinks he might actually _swoon_ , and how humiliating would that be, but who _cares_ , because his view when he looks down is a tangled curtain of curls and lowered lashes, and slender fingers, and pink lips, and that mouth stuffed full of his cock.

The tails of his shirt are in the way. He makes short work of his cuffs and two extra buttons at his neck and pulls it off over his head, and now he can see _everything_.

It takes all of Martin’s self control not to wind his hands into that crazy hair and thrust himself deep into Timmy’s throat, but there’s _not coddling_ and then there’s...whatever that would be, so no. Instead he flexes and clenches his hands, and rubs his palms up and down the outsides of his legs. If he was closer to the wall he could lean his hands on that, but—

Then Timmy grabs Martin’s wrist in his free hand and tugs meaningfully towards his hair.

Martin startles, gasps. Looks at his hand in Timmy’s grip then looks at Timmy’s face, where he is peering up at Martin through his lashes and nodding encouragingly, _without coming off his cock_ , and _fuck_ , so Martin settles both hands into his hair and feels rich, warm vibrations travelling through his belly and thighs at Timmy’s encouraging groan.

Now everything is perfect, everything is gorgeous, Martin wants to live here forever, in this moment with his prick sliding between this (very) young man’s lips, his hands tangled through chaotic hair, the air filled with the sounds of suck and slurp, filthy and exquisite, and Timmy’s moans that match his own when his cock hits the back of his throat. Martin never wants this to stop.

Martin is melting, bit by bit, with every swipe of Timmy’s tongue up his shaft and over the slit. A thread of worry twists its way through Martin’s brain, though, even as he floats in the waves of sensation, because if Timmy is used to younger men, he might already be wondering when this will end. Twenty-two years old or no, blowjobs are hard on the knees. (And the jaw.)

He shifts a bit, tenses up, but Timmy takes it for a thrust and lets out an absolutely decadent moan around Martin’s cock, full and wet, and takes him deep into his throat. Saliva is dripping down his chin and shining on Martin’s thighs and Timmy shakes his head around Martin’s prick, _like a dog with a bone, ha,_ getting everything wet, and groaning through the sloppy mess, glorying in it, and banishing Martin’s doubt. Martin sinks back into the warmth and pleasure with a long, throaty sigh.

Timmy’s shameless enjoyment is every bit as arousing as his plump mouth around Martin’s cock. He’s drooling and smacking his lips, a little down to inexperience, maybe, but mostly it’s just wanton _._ He _loves_ this. Whatever he needed, he’s getting it by smearing his spit all over Martin’s cock and balls and taking him as deep into his mouth as he can. His tongue is slick and clever, and his lips when they suck at his slit are delectable, and he moans and purrs at Martin’s fingers scratching through his hair, and all in all, this is _so fucking good_ , and if his hands weren’t sunk in riotous curls he would pinch himself.

A moment later, though, he becomes sharply aware of a new rhythm coming into the mix, steady and relentless. He looks down to see Timmy’s body swaying a little, and the hand that isn’t wrapped around Martin’s cock has vanished down out of Martin’s line of sight. His arm and shoulder are working vigorously.

Timmy’s got Martin’s cock in his mouth and his own cock in his hand and his whole body is rocking out this rhythm and it’s stunning, it’s glorious. Martin nearly comes on the spot at the sight and the thought of this young beauty chasing his pleasure with such abandon and letting Martin share in it.

Another part of Martin, though, sees it and screams, _Hell, no,_ because that is _not allowed,_ scene or no scene. _That’s fucking mine._

His hands in Timmy’s hair have been stroking gently, but now he tightens his grip, squeezes, just this side of painful, and revels in Timmy’s startled, muffled noise. He uses his grip to thrust, not playing at it now, deep into Timmy’s mouth, until he sputters and gags. Timmy brings both hands up to Martin’s hips; he needs a bracing grip to keep from choking.

Gagging, hacking, sputtering...and _moaning_ . Not pushing away. Still sucking, still working, still trying to twist his tongue around Martin’s cock, even through the punishing thrusts that plunge well beyond his gag reflex. He’s so fucking beautiful that _oh god oh god_ , Martin’s orgasm is _right there_ , and he’s not ready, he does not want to come, not now, not _first_.

So much for _Timmy can have what he wants._ That’s gone, now. He tightens his hands in Timmy’s hair and _growls_ at the boy: “You’ll come when I want you to come.” He pulls him up, hardly waiting for him to stagger to his feet before stuffing a rough kiss into his mouth. He lets his lips rove over Timmy’s angular face, mouthing and scraping his teeth over the delicate skin, burrowing possessively into his neck, while sliding his hand down to grasp his erection.

 _Oh, christ, oh christ._ It _slides._ Timmy’s cock is so wet, has been leaking so much, that it feels like Martin slicked his hand with lube, and _christ_ he’s hot, his head thrown back, his panting breaths, his needy little sounds, and his hard, slippery cock, sliding through Martin’s hand.

Timmy turns his head and mouths at Martin’s ear, whispers brokenly, “ _G_ _od_ , Martin, that’s good,” and Martin loses it. All of his control, all his patience, all his _plans,_ vanish in a frenzy of _now, now, now._

Letting go of Timmy’s prick, he grips him by the shoulders and turns him roughly around, pulling him close so that his long, narrow back is flush against his own bare chest. He wraps his right arm around Timmy’s waist and splays his hand across his chest.

His fingers find a taut nipple and tweak, flick, almost pinch, and it must be at least as much pain as pleasure, given the rough treatment his nipples have had tonight, but Timmy moans and arches and _yeah,_ this is good, but Martin wants that cock again, so he reaches around with his left hand, and there it is, as wet as ever.

Martin’s fingers close, tight, and his hand slides over that slippery head and up and down that hard, hard shaft, and Timmy almost howls at the feel of it. And then it’s rough and hard and _oh fuck yeah you hot little thing you’re so fucking gorgeous you like that don’t you yeah that’s it that’s it oh fuck_ and Timmy’s moans and curses tumbling out in rhythmic bursts, and his body doesn’t seem to know which way to arch or writhe to catch the most pleasure, so that his nipple is pressed into Martin’s fingertips and his arse is arched back against Martin’s cock, giving him something to thrust against as he works his hand furiously over Timmy’s twitching, dripping prick...

...and as Timmy groans raggedly and starts to come Martin says _you beautiful sweet sweet boy_ in his head but not out loud, just groans and says, “ _Y_ _eah, yeah, that’s it, perfect. Perfect. Fuck, that’s good,”_ and the first splatters of Timmy’s come make him thrust hard _go go go go_ against Timmy’s arse until he, too, shatters and falls.

Timmy goes limp and hangs in Martin's arms, and Martin pants and pants into his hair, holding the beautiful boy he still can't quite believe is real, and basking in the exquisite blankness of his own mind in the blessedly empty time before they must rise, and speak.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no way Timmy will still want to look at Martin once he regains his senses. He will leave as quickly as he politely can, and if they ever cross paths again, he will pretend not to have seen him. Martin has done this before, and he knew what he was getting into when this all started. He's still not looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL someone told me that there are real people named Martin Freeman and Timothée Chalamet and that they are a little bit like the characters in this story and OMG that's just really WILD, isn't it? Coincidences like that must crop up all over, though. It's a crazy old world. Anyway, coincidence notwithstanding, these guys are completely made up. Hah. Imagine if they really were real.

Martin holds him there, long against his chest and belly, and they breathe. In a moment he’ll need to straighten up, stretch his back, but he’s loath to let go just yet. Soon enough the haze will clear for Timmy and reality will set back in, and Martin is not actually looking forward to that. So he ignores the protest of his back and just holds him there. He may get three or four more breaths with him that way.

He gets five. And then Timmy stirs against him, taking more of his own weight instead of hanging, spent, in Martin’s arms. He doesn’t do anything as obvious as pull away, but he stretches his neck to one side, then the other, and moves his pelvis in little tucks and wriggles. Perhaps his lower back is bothering him, too.

Martin loosens his arms only as much as he has to, to accommodate Timmy as he moves, but not so much that he lets go any sooner than he must. Still, after a bit more shifting, Martin finally steps away, and Timmy stands, and turns around.

And just like that, the bubble bursts. Whatever magic it was that made this encounter possible, made it not only imaginable but so, so desired, by both of them...evaporates. Martin can see the moment when it happens.

They know—surely Timmy must also know—how they look right now, how absurd and laughable it is. But Timmy only looks embarrassed, holding up his hand and casting around for something to wipe it with. In another moment, he will be completely lost to Martin, and if they ever meet again, he will pretend he hasn’t seen him.

And that is not all right with Martin. _Say something._

 _What?_ A joke. Humour can save him if anything can. Before he can finish the thought, his hip is cocked and his head is already shaking in mock dismay, and he sallies forth with, “Holy Mother of God—” and he’s away. “Timothée Chalamet, will you look at the state of yourself?” Timmy looks up in shock, and Martin presses on. “Jeans around your knees, cock out to the four winds, and _what_ have you got all over your hand, hmm? Honestly, the youth of today, I just don’t know, I really don’t…”

There’s action to go with his patter. While he talks, he gathers up his sagging trousers in one hand and reaches across to the box of tissues on the desk, gives his own spent penis a cursory wipe before handing a wad of tissues to Timmy for his hand. “You’d think an clever independent film star like yourself would have more class, but apparently—” His boxer briefs are up now, he’s got a grip on his belt so his trousers don’t fall, and he has one more wad of tissues in his hand to wipe up the blob of semen Timmy has missed when twisting to clean up his own back “—it’s _all over his back_ , good _lord…”_

The transformation on Timmy’s face during Martin’s diatribe has been a sight to behold, and Martin laments that he could only keep an eye on it sidelong, not to appear to watch him too closely. Shock gives way quickly to blushing and stuttering, and finally open laughter, and Martin knows they’re safe.

Martin laughs back at him and finally loosens his grip and lets his trousers fall to the floor. “Let’s get cleaned up properly, yeah?” He steps out of his pants and trou, and yes, he’s walking through the room with an open shirt and a bare bottom, but he knows if he doesn’t stand on dignity then Timmy won’t need to, either.

The time they spend cleaning up is companionable now, if still a little embarrassed. There are plenty of washcloths. Martin does not suggest a shower; it would be too strange. Timmy is all coltish clumsiness now, not a smoulder in sight, and his pale hairless body, without the haze of arousal, makes him feel only tender and protective.

(With some difficulty, he stops himself from even thinking the word _paternal_ , but it’s a near thing.)

When they’re tidied up, they return to the sleeping area. Martin turns his back and pulls a pair of pyjama bottoms out of his case. Having broken the post-coital ice, he now finds he doesn’t know what to say. Well, yes, he does, _Goodbye_ is what comes next, of course; Martin knows this script well. Now that they’ve had a little laugh, they’ll part as friends, and if they ever meet again, they’ll exchange a knowing grin and allow themselves to be introduced.

That’s all. Time to play it out.

When Martin looks back around, Timmy is dressed again. He’s hovering. Not quite _by_ the door, but something in his stance tends in that direction. He’s got one skinny elbow in the air and he’s rubbing at the back of his neck, and looking everywhere but at Martin.

Trying to figure out how to leave politely, Martin reckons.

“Well, ah...that was nice.”

“It was.” Martin gazes at him for a moment. “It was bloody marvellous, is what it was.” And then, “Thank you.”

Timmy’s eyes squinch up in a smile that covers his whole face. “Thank you? Thank _you!_ I don’t—I don’t usually do...this. But you made it easy.”

“Well, I’m nothing if not easy.”

Timothée blushes (God, he does that so easily). “That’s not what I meant, I didn’t—”

“I know, calm down, I know. I was kidding.”

“I just meant you made it nice. I started it like such a punk, and you were _..._ really nice.”

 _He’s so articulate in interviews._ Aloud, instead of more teasing, Martin says, “You too.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

They’re standing, not quite in the hall, Timmy back in his jeans and his t-shirt, and his shoes, Martin in flannel pyjama bottoms and his still-open shirt, smiling past each other.

“If you’re trying to figure out how to leave,” he starts.

“What? I—oh, um. No, it’s…” He gives a little smile. “No, I guess it’s fine, I’ll just…” And now he does step towards the door. His shoulders and neck do something complicated that serves to make him look smaller. His smile, as he turns away, is wry.

If Martin weren’t watching him so closely he’d have missed the last second where his eyes turned downwards as he reached for the door handle.

“You could stay, though.” Martin has never been one to go against his instincts, but he’s still a bit surprised at the words that come out. And again, “You don’t have to go.”

Timmy’s hand pauses an inch or two from the handle, draws back a little. Even from behind, Martin can see him thinking this through. When he turns, it’s slowly, his eyes flicking nervously from the floor to Martin’s face and back. He’s looking at the floor when he says, “Stay here?”

Martin laughs. “ _Here_ is what I’ve got, so yeah.”

Timmy still hesitates. “Do you mean…?”

Fair enough. What _does_ he mean? “I mean stay over, sleep in the bed with me, put up with my snoring, and have coffee with me in the morning. Breakfast. Company.” Martin hardly knew he was thinking it before he’s said it, but now that it’s out, he sees a mental picture that he likes very much. A bit more time with sunny, awkward Timmy, and not waking up alone for once.

He wants him to say yes. “I’m flying out at 1:30, so you wouldn’t be stuck with me for long.”

Timmy looks up at that, meets his eyes at last. His nervousness seems to have fled, and a smile plays around his still-red lips as he considers Martin. There’s a trace of the impudence with which he accosted Martin in the first place, the same _I see right through you_ twist to his mouth. Martin holds his gaze and keeps his expression carefully casual. He takes a risk and twitches a small smile.

The smile Timmy returns comes with a warm crinkle of his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

“Okay.” _Okay._

And yes, it’s more smiling awkwardness, borrowing a t-shirt, taking turns in the shower, bathroom door kept shut, eyes averted, _I always travel with an extra toothbrush, here…_ and Martin can’t remember the last time he was in quite this position with a sexual partner, but within it all is a thread of warmth, and sidelong smiles, and yeah, it’ clumsy, but it’s also just so...nice.

At the end of it all, they both settle, a little gingerly, on their respective sides of the luxurious king-sized bed, complete with blankets pulled up modestly to their chests. Martin on the right, Timmy on the left.

Timmy draws a breath to speak, stops. Looks over at Martin, back at the ceiling. Comes to a decision. “Listen, this might not be your thing…”

“Oh…? What?”

He takes another breath. Then: “I like snuggling.”

This kid. _You sucked my cock and then I came up your back._ And a cuddle is what he finds hard to ask for. Martin feels it’s best not to laugh, though he can’t suppress a grin. “Snuggling, is it?” He makes his voice gruff. “Well, come here, then.”

Their bodies fold together effortlessly, smoothly after all the clumsy bumbling that came earlier. Timmy is by far the taller of the two of them, but he tucks his head under Martin’s chin and slides an arm across his chest and up under his shoulderblade. Martin’s right hand comes naturally to rest on his upper arm, and his left has slid under Timmy’s body. They both let out a long, slow breath.

This is how they fall asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning had to come sooner or later; this was never going to last for more than one night. And the light of day is not called _harsh_ for nothing. Martin's no fool. Waking up next to a forty-six year old, a forty-six year old _man_ , might be a little too much reality for the young and shining Timothée Chalamet. Martin has his own ideas about how he wants this morning to go, but he has to wait, he has to make sure that whatever Timmy wanted from him last night will still be welcomed in the day.

Martin wakes up first. It’s been a rough night. It’s been a while since he shared a bed with anyone, and even then, for years bed sharing was mainly for sleeping; each person stayed on their respective sides. Sharing with Timmy is more like sleeping with one of his kids (and yeah, _that_ thought slipped through at 3:30 am before he could stop it), all arms and bones and wriggles and twitches and absolutely no personal space whatsoever. He hasn’t slept well _at all_.

He still finds himself grinning into the meager morning light that filters past the hotel’s backout blinds.

Well, what else is there to do? He’s had the weirdest, most glorious damn experience and he can’t explain it in the least, or why it should have happened to him, but it _has_ happened to him; Timmy, for some unfathomable reason, chose Martin, for sex and for some odd, ephemeral kind of companionship as well, and here they are.

Here they are, a little stale, a little sweaty, Timmy’s face smooshed up against Martin’s chest and his hair an almighty disaster of frizz and clumpy outworn hair product. Martin’s neck and lower back are complaining about the unfamiliar bed and the less-than-restful night. Martin has curls up his nose and drool making a wet patch on his t-shirt and for the first time in ages he just feels _good._

Good, but still forty-six years old. If he doesn’t move soon, his back will likely start to spasm where he lies.

He doesn’t want to wake Timmy, though. Gingerly, he tries to rotate his hips a little without shifting his torso, and rolls his neck gently on the pillow. It doesn’t help much, and when Timmy doesn’t budge, he risks a more fulsome stretch, lengthening one side of his spine and then the other.

 _Ahh, yeah_. That’s the knot, right there. One more twist and he should be able to fan out his ribcage just enough to stop that one muscle seizing...but then Timmy makes a noise into Martin’s chest and he freezes.

 _Fuck._ This is ridiculous. He should fucking stretch if he needs to stretch. Timmy’s an infant; he’ll probably sleep through anything. And even if he does wake up, well, morning had to come sometime. This is going to end, and soon. Now, if last night was anything to go by, it can probably end _well_ , but the end is hurtling towards them either way.

 _Just do it._ He finishes his stretch, twists his spine, and hears a satisfying crack between his shoulder blades. The cramp down the right side of his spine subsides to a low mutter, and it’s so blissful that he goes ahead and twists the other way. The pop of his vertebra is smaller on this side, but lovely all the same.

Through it all, Timmy only hums a little and shifts in his sleep, smacks his lips a couple of times, and rearranges his gangly limbs without seeming to even drift towards consciousness. When he settles again, he’s draped even more completely over Martin’s body, his left arm _and_ leg slung all the way across him, and the whole front of his body plastered to Martin’s side.

The _whole_ front. And Martin is remined of yet another difference between twenty-two and forty-six, because Timmy, asleep, is rock hard, and his erection is pressing somewhat insistently into the side of Martin’s leg.

This puts Martin into a dubious position. Dubious because, although Timmy was dead keen for Martin’s attentions last night, his enthusiasm might not extend to this morning. The light of day is not called _harsh_ for nothing; Martin’s grizzled stubble and his rich, earthy morning breath might be a little too much reality for Timmy.

So the fact that Timmy’s hard dick is pressed firmly against Martin’s leg—oh, pressed firmly and, yes, actually now moving in little rhythmic thrusts, yes, well, this is interesting indeed, and really, really doesn’t help...

Because Martin is exceedingly, unwisely fond of this young, lanky, bony armful, and he’d really, really like to touch him.

He just doesn’t know if he’s still allowed.

A moment later, though, his overthinking is exposed for what it is. Timmy’s eyes are still shut tight, but obviously he’s awake because he murmurs, sleepily, “What’s it take to get a bit of attention around here?”

 _Ah_. So he’s awake. Martin’s caught, but this kid is so goddamn cute. He smiles a little, strokes his arm. Says, “Wasn’t sure if you wanted any.”

Now Timmy’s eyes do open, and he lifts his head up just enough to stare at him incredulously. “Martin. I am literally humping your leg.”

Martin blinks. “Well, I…”

“What?” A gleam of gentle mockery sparks in his eyes. “I mean, If that’s a mixed message to you...” He trails off..

The next moment, Timmy is wide awake and surges up from his sprawl, throwing his leg over Martin’s hips and straddling him, _swarming_ him, if one person can be said to swarm all on his own.

His mouth is wide in laughter. “What about this?” He humps away, madly, like a puppy, letting his head flop with the movement, no holding back. “Is _this_ a clear signal?”

He drags his erection up Martin’s leg to his belly. “What about _this_?” More humping, more hamming, exaggerated grunting. “ _Unh, unh, unh, oh yeah_...I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” He’s laughing as he goes, irrascible, irresistible, grabbing, thrusting, giggling...the little brat’s being sarcastic as fuck but he’s so goddamn joyful about it.

Timmy’s hard but he doesn’t seem to care about that at the moment. Every action is exaggerated, over-the-top lasciviousness. Now he’s bending to nibble at Martin’s neck, pushing his cock into the flesh of Martin’s leg; now he’s drawing his fingertips over Martin’s biceps where they lie behind his head. (“Oh, Martin,” he trills. “Your arms are so buff and manly.” He ignores Martin’s eye roll.)

Up again, straddled, and he’s pulling off his borrowed t-shirt, not from the collar, but up from the hem, uncovering his thin body in one swift movement, and then flinging the garment away with a toss of his head. His fingertips come trailing up the sides of his own body, rib by rib, and brush over his nipples. Martin glances up at his face to find his eyes half-lidded and his full lower lip caught between his teeth.

 _What a brat,_ Martin thinks. _What a hot fucking brat._ And yeah, it’s pretty fantastic, but Martin starts to wonder if maybe he’s letting the kid take too many liberties.

When Timmy puts his index finger between his pouty lips, runs his tongue all over it, messy, and uses the tip to draw wet circles over his tight little nipple, though…

“That’s enough of _that._ ” With a growl, Martin heaves himself up, toppling Timmy from where he sits astride his hips, and rolls him over onto his back. And yes, he pins his hands above his head because, damnit, this boy needs to learn some _manners._

***

He’s breathless, Timothée is, once Martin has flipped him over and pinned him to the bed. His fingers curl loosely where Martin grasps his wrists, and he gazes up at him with a smile in his eyes...but breathless.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

The smile broadens. “Just wanted to make sure,” he huffs, “That I was being clear.”

Martin shakes his head. “Yeah, I think I got the message.”

“Yeah?” And if Martin thought that _breathless_ meant _beaten_ he now sees his error and Timmy wriggles his hips into alignment with his...and slowly curls them up. “If you got the message, _then why have I still got clothes on_?”

And Martin has never backed away from a challenge like _that_ , not in all of his forty-six years. Still, the speed with which he gets Timmy from _clothed_ and _smirking_ to _naked_ and _panting_ surprises even him.

But he’s here now, the pants and t-shirt flung somewhere behind his shoulder, and he didn’t realize last night what he was missing out on when he left Timmy partly dressed while taking him apart.

Because this kid is _beautiful._ Just...beautiful. Absolutely beautiful, and for a moment it takes his breath away.

It stalls him, the creamy skin laid out on the white sheets, the tiny pale nipples and the scant hair low on his belly. His long, narrow body reclining, relaxed. Arms bent behind his head, one leg crooked at the knee. Calm and willing.

His face... _god._ Smiling, pliant, warm. _Inviting._

There’s no fear at all about him, no shame, to find himself here with a man—and an older man at that. Martin thought that, too, might come with the light of day, but no. He doesn’t look at Martin like an illicit shag, or a ruinous mistake.

He looks at Martin like a friend.

Is this what it is to be not-quite-straight in 2018? Bit different from in Martin’s day. But the stab of envy he feels, the compassion for his 22-year-old self who was decidedly _not_ fearless, _not_ shameless, is quickly subsumed into a tender kind of joy, for Timmy. For the kind of loves he’ll be able to have, for not being afraid.

 _Enough,_ he chides himself. There’ll be plenty of time to have these thoughts later on, when he’s alone.

He lets his hands start to wander over the landscape of Timmy’s skin, palms flat and firm, stroking over his chest and down his ribcage. Martin is an actor; his hands are not particularly rough. Still, he can feel the contrast between Timmy’s fresh, smooth skin and his own palms. It sets his hands tingling; he can only hope it does the same for Timmy’s body.

There’s a real pleasure to be had, just in the passage of his hands over the lengths of Timmy’s frame, feeling the give of his flesh and the strength of his bones. He just feels _good._ Young and strong and healthy and _good._ He stretches a bit under Martin’s petting, arches languidly up into his touch, and he feels... _good._

Really good. But Martin can make him feel _better_.

Plus, he wants to taste this feast, not just touch, so he bends his head and draws his nose up under Timmy’s jaw, tracing the line of bone with his breath. He smells good, Timmy does, warm and sleepy, and somehow nourishing. Or maybe...delicious. Anyway, _edible._

Edible, yes. All at once, Martin knows _exactly_ what he wants.

Still, though: “Any requests?”

“Hmmm?” Timmy lolls his head around so he can look at Martin. “...what?”

Martin grins. “Is there a particular kind of attention you wanted?” He pauses. “Because if not—” and here he gets his hand around the base of Timmy’s cock, and _squeezes—_ “Then _this_ is what I want for breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suspense. What on earth will happen in the next chapter?? It's a TOTAL MYSTERY. Except not to me, because I've already written the next chapter, and not to you, really, either, because you _know_ what kind of fic this is.
> 
> Would love to hear what you think...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has given up pretending he doesn't want to give Timmy exactly everything he wants. And it's easy, because _hell_ yeah, Martin wants it too. Some of what he wants, though, _Martin_ can't give him.
> 
> Some of it he can, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am at the 2018 Fic Writers' Retreat, and look at that! I finally got some writing done.

_“This is what I want for breakfast.”_

Martin grins to see the quick intake of breath as he declares his intention. His hand is full of hard cock and tight balls, and his mouth is hungry for it, but he waits for an answer. “Any objections?”

Timmy’s head falls back onto the pillow with a _phwump._ “No,” he says, “l. That sounds nice.”

“Nice?”

A tiny, cheeky smile. “Like, really _really_ nice.”

Well, he doesn’t know what he’s in for yet. Maybe a good blowjob will expand his vocabulary.

He brings his face level with Timmy’s groin, and breathes deep. Because although the smell and taste of him behind his ear and under his jaw were lovely, here at the center of him it’s absolutely intoxicating. So he takes a breath, and lets it wash over him. But he doesn’t stay long, because really, if the kid’s gonna lie there and be delectable, then Martin’s next step is clear.

And he’s suddenly _ravenous._

He’s here at the tendon of Timmy’s groin, with prick and hair and delicate skin, and he buries his face in all of it, turning his head and wrapping his lips around as much cock and balls as he can manage. There’s no finesse here, no _table manners_ ; he mouths and lips and sucks and gobbles, and he is not tidy about it. Very quickly, Timmy’s balls and thighs are slick and shiny with his spit.

 _God_ , that’s a good look.

But he can’t stop for long because he’s discovered that both of Timmy’s testicles can fit in his mouth at the same time, and now he needs to have them there, the weight of them, rolling on his tongue, the spit-soaked hair, the firm little orbs under the thin skin—it all feels so satisfying, fills his mouth. And when he closes his lips around them and _sucks_ , Timmy spreads his legs wide and makes a sound that Martin is too goddamn turned on to try and describe.

 _Christ_. Martin loves using his mouth for sex, always has, but to hear Timmy’s noises and to have him spreading his legs and rocking his hips up—he can’t remember the last time he was this fucking inspired.

He kicks it up, now, licking at Timmy’s skin with his whole tongue, starting way down behind his balls and working his way up, until he’s painted a wide stroke all the way up his shaft, followed by a firm lick right across the top of the head and _oh—_ fuck, it’s just like last night, Timmy is _wet_ , is _leaking._ Martin’s tongue slips across the slit and comes away with a smear of precome that tastes absolutely wonderful, and he wants _more_ , so he wraps his lips around the head of Timmy’s cock and _sucks_ and _sucks_ , drawing as much of the flavour into his mouth as he can.

He sneaks a glance up Timmy’s body and he can’t even see his face, not with his head thrown back and thrashing against the pillows. One of Timmy’s arms is flung out beside him on the bed, and the other— _oh god_ —the other is bent, and his long fingers are spread along the length of his throat, his thumb stroking and his palm pressing at his own windpipe. His chest is heaving.

That’s another green light as far as Martin is concerned, so he brings his own hand into play, squeezing up the length of Timmy’s cock for another dribble of precome, moaning roughly as the taste of it fills his mouth.

 _Closer_ , he wants to get closer. He wriggles up the bed until his chest is almost pressed up against Timmy’s little arse, and hooks one of those long, slender legs over his shoulder. From this angle, he can take him _deep._

All the way down, slackening his jaw so he doesn’t gag, Martin fills himself up with Timmy, the heft of him, the smell, and stays there, deep, pulsing. He needs to breathe, but this feeling of fullness, he wants it, he doesn’t want it to stop, so he keeps Timmy’s head in the soft part of his mouth, stuffing him into his cheeks, rolling his tongue over and around, and slurping and sucking, then plunging back down, deep enough to choke.

It’s messy, the way he likes it, spit and dribble and sweat and precome, and he wants to do everything at once, teeth to tongue to lips to throat, and glorying in the writhing of Timmy’s lithe body as he chases the sensations that Martin heaps upon him without respite.

Timmy’s _noises_ , though. High pitched groans, heavy breathing, half-words half-uttered, signaling his pleasure, spurring Martin on, changing with the movement of Martin’s mouth and hands. Erratic and keening when he’s teasing and exploring, merging into rhythmic little _uh uh uh_ sounds that match Martin’s speed when he sustains a tempo for a bit; when he goes faster, so do they.

 _God,_ it’s so good. Martin wraps his arms around Timmy’s legs, scoops him up into both his palms, firmly kneads the cheeks of his arse. Sucks. _Sucks_. Squeezing, using his hands to lift Timmy’s hips so he can take his cock deeper, lifting and lowering—the kid seems to weigh nothing at all—and swallowing him down, swallowing him _whole_ , with the noises and the taste and the feel of him, and his smooth skin, and the uncontrolled little thrusts of his hips, uncontrolled because _Martin_ is the one in control, his arse is in Martin’s hands and his cock is in Martin’s mouth and it’s Martin driving the rhythm here and Martin knows it and it’s first thing in the morning but he’s fucking _high_ on it—

—and Timmy’s sounds change, go high and a little frantic, and it takes a few moments after the change for Martin to realize that Timmy is _not okay—_

_—Oh shit—_

_Timmy is not okay._

Timmy is breathing too fast and he’s vocalizing but not in the good way, now; there’s a catch on every breath and _oh christ_ they’re not quite sobs yet but close, and his hands are covering his eyes—

—and Martin can’t get his arms untangled fast enough, and he heaves himself off, scrambles up the bed, pries Timmy’s hands away from his face and wraps his arms around him; “Shh,” he says, “Easy, easy. Timmy, shh. It’s all right, I’ve got you, I’ll stop, I’ll stop. See? I’ve stopped. It’s—”

—and Timmy has barely caught his breath but he wails at Martin, he _wails_ at him, “Oh, god, no, don’t stop, oh god, don’t stop, please, you’ll kill me if you stop—”

—and Martin’s at a loss because the boy is clearly not all right and he should stop, he wants to stop, but also he wants to give this boy everything _he_ wants, and only exactly what he wants—

—so he keeps one arm wrapped around the thin, shaking shoulders and strokes the other, soothing, down Timmy’s body, and tentatively curls his fingers around Timmy’s stil-hard cock—

—and as his fingers close, Timmy takes a shuddering breath, and another, and stills, and calms in Martin’s arms.

_Thank god._

Martin lets another moment pass. “You want this, still?” he whispers, and Timmy breathes, “ _Yes,”_ with his eyes tight shut and desperate. “ _Please._ ”

 _Please,_ he’s said. So Martin holds him tighter, his body and his prick, and tries one long, slow pull, up and then back down, and Timmy sighs against his chest and the tension just...drains out of him.

Martin’s eyes do not leave his face as he tries another stroke, and watches in awe as Timmy just _settles_ , turning into his body and nuzzling his skin, resting there, under the soothing pleasure of Martin’s palm. The panic of a moment before has ebbed away, leaving only an exhausted, pliant kind of…

_...need._

He _needs_ this. All the bratty pretence is stripped away, revealing the need that has only shown itself in glimpses so far.

 _All right then._ Martin moves his hand again, sees the flutter of heavy eyelids; again, feels the melting of the young body against his. Again. Again. Again.

As Timmy does not tense up again, but stays loose and trusting in his arms, Martin gradually lets his hand get firmer, but keeps the pace slow. After several breaths, and several slow strokes, Timmy smiles a little into Martin’s chest.

Martin dares to speak, then. “Is this all right, then? Are you...?”

Timmy huffs a sigh. Or it may be a laugh. “Yeah.” He opens his eyes. Looks at Martin. Yes, it’s a smile, but it’s a sad one. “It’s just...I can’t forget for long. I just miss him, you know?”

Martin doesn’t ask who. “Yeah.”

“Sorry about…”

“Nah, happens all the time.” Martin gives him a wink. “I can be pretty overwhelming.” His hand is still moving slowly on Timmy’s prick. He’s well beyond wondering if it’s right or not; it’s right for them, right now.

Timmy smiles back, and stretches a bit, and he really does seem better; he gives a little thrust, urging Martin to speed up a little. He does, of course he does, and watches Timmy’s eyes flutter closed again, listens as his breathing comes a little faster.

He talks, now, nonsense and praise, “There you are, you’re okay. You’re...just settle, that’s it, relax, just feel it, that’s, that’s right. I’m—I’ve got this, leave it to me, just…” planting little kisses wherever he can reach as he does, face and forehead and nestled into curls. When he feels a shift in Timmy’s body, he speeds up again, clutching him tighter to his chest, pressing his lips to the creased brow, letting Timmy thrust and twitch and...accept.

He must be close, he _must_ be, but suddenly he pulls away and looks at Martin, looks him in the face with colour high in his cheeks and pupils blown wide with arousal, breathless, but half-grinning again.

And he says, “Am I still not allowed to call you Daddy?” With the same bratty attitude as before, except...not.

Martin raises his head, looks at Timmy’s bottomless eyes, and _isn’t fooled._ He gazes past the grin. “You can call me by any name you need to.”

And Martin _knows_ he will likely take this whole incident with him to his grave, because who would believe him anyway, this whole impossible night. The party, and the walk through the streets of Rome, and the need and the sadness in this beautiful boy, and his own need, too, and his sadness. And the comfort, the exquisite, desperate, unlikely comfort they’ve been able to bring each other, he’s going to take it all to his grave.

All of it, but most of all the name that Timmy breathes into his shoulder as he shudders and comes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end, and this too shall pass, and nothing lasts forever. This was never going to be anything other than a very brief encounter. Yes, there have been tender feelings, and yes, hearts have been bared, but it's morning now and it's time to say goodbye. A lot can happen, though, on the way to a goodbye...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With huge thanks to [shamelessmash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamelessmash/pseuds/shamelessmash/works) for amazing beta, good advice, and endless squee.

It isn’t strange until you think about it. It never is. Martin knows this. He is well-practiced in not thinking when thinking isn’t what’s called for. He lies on his side and lets Timmy burrow into his body and holds him close and _doesn’t think about it._ It’s nice.

Sooner than he was hoping, Timmy returns to himself. He shifts his body away from Martin’s and gives him a long look.

And Martin doesn’t mind. _Strange._ That this kid the with ancient eyes can look at him, and _see_ him, and he doesn’t mind. He’s seen Timmy, too. And it’s...all right. It’s good.

He looks up, and his wry pleasure must show on his face, because Timmy meets his gaze with a kind of wonder. They share a long, slow smile. _It’s ending,_ Martin thinks then. And he’s ready, more or less.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” He rolls away and heads for the bathroom. If it were just him, he’d make do with tissues, but he’s not cutting corners for Timmy. Warm washcloth it is.

It takes a minute of running the taps before the warm water starts coming. He’s left the bathroom door open, and he can feel Timmy’s eyes on him. He waits, his gaze fixed on the flow of water.

Timmy watches him as he carefully wets the flannel, holding each corner under the rush of water so that the whole cloth gets warm, then wrings it out over the basin, shaking the excess water off his hands. Timmy doesn’t look away, and Martin doesn’t look up.

When he turns back to the bed, though, he makes sure to meet Timmy’s gaze as he hands him the flannel. Timmy’s smile as he takes it is gentle, and only a little crooked. “Thanks,” he says. It’s another beat before he releases Martin’s eye and begins to clean himself.

In another moment, though, he’s done. He tosses the flannel onto the bathroom floor, gives an impish smile, and reaches for Martin’s groin.

Martin—watching himself in a kind of bemused horror— catches his hand and draws it around his waist instead. _What the hell, Martin? He wants to toss you off. This is your last chance, Freeman, don’t—_ He looks at him a moment, smiles ruefully, and bends to give him a chaste kiss on the forehead.

Timmy gives him an incredulous look. “What’s with this forehead shit? Lemme—” He reaches out once more.

Martin deflects him again, saying, “Nah, I don’t need—I’m good. It’d take forever.”

That’s what he says. But really it’s that he can’t imagine what this last orgasm could possibly look like. Now that Timmy has wept in his arms and he feels more protective and, and paternal than ever. _Yeah, fucking paternal, and yeah, that’s all kinds of fucked up, but there it is._

And _how_ is Timmy right back to grins and backchat, after what he’s just been feeling? Martin shudders at even the possibility that Tim’s just offering because he feels somehow...obliged. _No._ That’s not how he wants this to go. “I don’t need anything,” he finishes lamely.

Timmy narrows his eyes, peers at Martin. “You don’t want…” And here he blushes crimson, but presses on: “You don’t want me to take care of you?”

Martin stares. _He means your cock, you numpty. That’s all._ But he stares, because it’s been some time since anyone has taken care of him. For a moment, he can’t quite answer. Then he says, frowning and looking at his hands. “It’s just...it’s an end. It’s a natural end. You know? Drama school? Improv? The scene comes to a natural end, and you…”

“You let it end.”

“...yeah.”

There it hangs between them: The end is here, and Martin, who knows what a proper exit looks like, is bowing out gracefully.

That is, until Timmy says, “Well, fuck that,” and surges up from the bed.

“I—what?” Martin is so caught off-guard that he never quite knows how he ends up on his back, with Timothée sitting on his legs, his thin arm twisted round so he can grab a handful of Martin’s hardening cock.

“I said, _fuck that._ ” His slender hand doesn’t stop moving. “I had a moment and now you’re feeling all protective and self-denial-y and you think you’re going to get me out of here when I still have a chance to make you come?” He raises his eyebrows. Says, again, “Fuck. That.”

Martin looks up at Tim. He’s straddling him, half-scowling, half grinning, determined, grinding the heel of his hand into Martin’s pajama-clad crotch, and all thoughts of bowing out gracefully vanish. He could say no, again, and make it stick, but the thought does not cross his mind.

Obviously he’s going to let Timmy do anything he wants. “Fine.” He grins, and tucks his hands up behind his head. “Have it your way, then.”

Timmy’s answering smile is slow, pleased, and lecherous. “Oh, I intend to, Mr. Freeman.”

***

Martin lets it happen. Just because he can’t picture it, doesn’t mean Timmy can’t.

And Timmy can, apparently. While Martin lies there with his head resting on his hands, Timmy makes himself at home.

 _At home._ There’s no other way to describe it. He drops his mock dominance and pours himself down along Martin’s side, in an endless landscape of long lines and crooked elbows. Somehow he has an arm bent over his head to rest on Martin’s chest, a leg slung across his thighs, and one hand free to roam and stroke. His overall picture is a boneless puddle, stretched out like a cat, half sunk into the mattress. His touches are aimless, slow and languid. His head lolls under a tumble of curls. He looks well settled where he is, like he plans to stay awhile.

Timmy’s touches stay idle and seemingly random for a long time. He trails his fingers over Martin’s chest for a bit, catching at his nipples, or not, staying to tweak and circle, or not. Then he might shift his focus to his other hand, sliding it over and across Martin’s thighs, down to his knees, up to his stomach. He lets his hand and fingers move across and under and around Martin’s cock, but he doesn’t pause there, or give it any kind of special attention. Meanwhile, Timothée’s mouth rambles over the skin of Martin’s side, lips and tongue and even his whole face at times, burrowing into the soft flesh, or planting tiny kisses all in a row.

At first, Martin expects to find it maddening, or annoying, or too disjointed to be effective, but no; The slow, directionless touches are unexpectedly soothing. Heat rises into his skin with the passage of Timothée’s fingers and swirls gently through his nerve endings, building his arousal without demanding his attention. It’s...relaxing. Martin breathes a long, slow sigh, and finds himself almost drowsing.

He can’t remember ever being so passive during sex. A time when he’s felt free to simply follow his own sensations in this way, with no thought of an objective. Timothée, though, has settled in for the long haul, nothing _goal-oriented_ about his approach. Martin smiles a little behind his closed eyes, and just lets himself sink into the warmth that is simmering beneath his skin. This easy sensuality is new to Martin, but with Timmy it just fits.

Martin has lost track of just how long he’s been lying there, floating on feeling. He’s hard, of course he is, but the random touches have allowed his pleasure and his arousal to diffuse throughout his body. He’s enjoying himself immensely, but he’s not any closer to coming than he was when this all started. He thinks distantly that he might have to wrap this up soon, if they’re going to have time for breakfast before…

At that moment, Timmy curls his fingers fingers under Martin’s balls in _just_ the right way and without transition Martin is _there._ The desire that had been lurking, unseen, unacknowledged, suddenly breaks the surface in a massive rolling wave, flushing his face, lifting his body, and hardening his cock even further.

“Oh, _Jesus.”_ The sensation bursts out of him in a loud moan. Where the hell did _that_ come from?

On cue, Timmy’s soft, wandering touches suddenly become intensely focused. He raises himself up and wraps a hand around Martin’s erection, plying it with long, firm strokes and finishing each with a squeeze and a twist at the tip. And Timmy has wrought very well indeed, Martin sees, as the pleasure that has been radiating all through his body, so scattered as to seem soft, even tepid, now coalesces down his very center, into a bright, clear note of pure desire.

His hips are up off the bed and his head is thrown back and _Christ,_ he was going to say no to _this?_ A second ago he was thinking of gently extricating himself and ordering fucking _breakfast_ , and now he’s mere moments away from coming all over himself, and how had Timmy _done_ that all flopped over on the bed like a lanky rag doll?

But _fuck it,_ who cares _how_? His hand is firm on Martin’s cock, his strokes are rough and fucking _perfect,_ and _oh god,_ his head has bent and his lips are wrapping around the head of Martin’s prick and sliding down to meet his fist, and it’s warm and wet and hard and filthy, and Martin has his arms spread wide on the bed to stop himself from twisting them into those curls and thrusting up into that mouth and coming down that open, beautiful throat, and even that thought is enough to bring him right to the edge, and—

“Timmy! I’m coming, I’m—”

—and Timmy pulls off with a wet noise and tightens his grips and twists his wrist and speeds up— _yes yes fuck—_ and _wrings_ Martin’s orgasm out of him from the bottom of his balls, and he comes, eyes tight shut and muscles clenched and every nerve alight.

***

The next thing he’s conscious of is a weight settling on his belly.

He opens one eye, only a crack. There is Timmy, chin resting on his folded arms, leaning on Martin and peering up at his face with a broad grin. He looks enormously pleased with himself.

Martin can’t help but smile back. He lets his eyes fall closed. “Yeah,” he says.

Timmy lifts his head. “Yeah? Yeah what?”

 _Fishing._ Martin feels his energy returning. He opens his eyes again. “Yeah, that was good. Bloody marvellous. You were right.”

“Yes, I was,” he says primly. “And there you were, not even wanting me to touch you.”

Martin looks at him then, wondering if there was something beneath the mock chiding, the good natured, self-satisfied teasing.

“Actually, _Timothée,_ ” he says, because it’s true, “I want you to touch me _forever._ I want to keep you here and have you touch me all day, and miss my flight, and do even more terrible things to you than I’ve already done—and I can be quite inventive, you should know that.” He pauses for a moment, and lets his face show some of what he’s been hiding. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, this has been…” He trails off.

“Yeah,” Timmy says. “Me too.”

Martin gives him a look. “I was _going_ to say, this has been exactly what I needed.”

“Yeah,” Timmy says again, and he’s smiling. “Me too.”

Timmy shifts himself, sits up in the bed, and they face each other for a moment, not hiding anything. Then Martin stirs himself.

“So just...fucking...have breakfast with me. Coffee. We’ll order it to the room, so, so we—”

“So no one sees us together.”

“Well, yeah. You know, or—fuck it, who would believe this? Even if they see us, if they even recognize...if we’re not actually snogging there’s no way anyone’ll guess...this. We can go out if you want.”

“You’re right, but…” Timmy bites his lip for a moment, not sultry now but shy. “Let’s still stay in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Timmy leans over towards Martin, does a thing with his head where he nuzzles up under Martin’s chin exactly like a spoilt pony, and plants a kiss under his jaw. “That way when I leave, I can kiss you goodbye.”

***

They have breakfast at the small table in the corner of the room. Martin gives Timmy the room’s single chair, and he sits on the corner of the bed. They have coffee. Talk. About past projects, drama school, films, plays. About their summer filming schedules. They don’t talk about love or heartbreak—that has been wiped away with the last of Timmy’s tears. They don’t talk about sex.

It’s nice. It’s easy. Timothée is charming and intelligent, and Martin allows himself to forget that the man he’s talking to is very, very young indeed. It doesn’t matter. He lets himself just enjoy the company. _If it’s not going to be a problem with your cock is in his mouth, it shouldn’t be a problem over coffee._

There comes a moment when their plates are clear and their cups are empty, and their eyes meet, and _here_ it is at last, for real this time: the natural ending. They both see it, and know it for what it is.

They share a smile.

“Well…”

“So…” They speak at the same time. They both laugh a little. They don’t have anything much to say anyway.

Partings are never particularly clean, even the most casual, which this is not. It takes time to get out the door.

Timmy uses the bathroom (he had two cups of coffee) and comes out looking...good. He’s wet down his hair to revive and redistribute whatever product is left—there must have been a fair lot of it to begin with—and his curls look at least somewhat intentional. His clothes—that is not a mid-morning outfit, by any stretch, even in Rome. Last night’s clothes coupled with that hair and that smile? _Successful night out_. It’ll be clear to anyone who looks at him.

No one will imagine who he’s been with, Martin thinks. They’ll imagine a lucky young girl, dewy skin and rosy lips. It gives Martin a warm glow, how wrong they’ll be.

They’re not actually trying to draw this out, though. Timmy’s at the door, putting on his shoes, and this time Martin is going to let him go.

Still, they stall a little.

“You okay for a cab?” Martin is aware he sounds like a parent.

“Nah,” Timmy says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I’m going to walk a bit. Kill some time. Get some gelato later. Maybe actually take in some of the sights. My flight to Paris doesn’t leave til after dinner.”

“Sounds good.” _Ask him._ “You...going to be okay?”

Timmy gives a little sigh, but with a sort of smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I will. Yeah. Yeah.” He’s nodding as he speaks. His smile grows wider; he’s telling the truth. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Martin smiles back. Clears his throat. Says, “Good.” And his voice is only a little gruff.

“Thanks, Martin.” Timmy steps in close, runs a hand over Martin’s shoulder and down his arm. He ducks his head, and kisses him.

Martin receives his kiss, and gives him one in return. “Thank _you_ , Timothée Chalamet. It’s been a pleasure.”

Timmy straightens, and gives a mock bow. “The pleasure was all mine, sir.”

For a beat, it’s crinkled smiles and warm, warm eyes. Then Timmy nods, and opens the door.

“See you around,” he says, leaning back in, his hand sliding up the edge of the door.

“Yeah,” says Martin, quirking a half-smile. “Take care of yourself, Lil Timmy Tim.”

And Timmy grins, bites his lip for a moment...and leaves.

Martin closes the door gently behind him. He stays a moment with his hand on the doorknob. Leans his head on the door. Breathes.

It isn’t long, though, before he rouses himself and turns back to the empty room. Time to pack up. It’s forty minutes to the airport, even if there were no traffic. He can be there on time, even early; There’s no reason to stay here any longer.

As he gets ready to leave, Martin clears a space in his head to allow himself to brood. He discovers to his surprise that he doesn’t really want to. At the moment, he’s just really...happy. Pleased and sated and happy.

Well? He started the night feeling grizzled and jaded. Old, in amongst the beautiful people. _Past it._ Even if he has got work lined up well into 2020. Alone, and expecting to remain so. Practical.

And into that walked Timmy, with that face and those eyes, those brazen expressions. Timmy, and his tears in Martin’s arms, his pleasure in Martin’s hands. The secrets of his heart, breathed so that only Martin can hear. Timmy, stretched out on the bed and lazily fanning the embers of Martin’s arousal so that the final conflagration is a shock and a wonder.

Who would believe this? No one. No one would ever guess, and no one would ever believe. _I can scarcely believe it myself, and I was there._

He was there. He was there. It happened. It happened, and it’s Martin’s now, to keep. To think about, every time he sees Timothée in the news—which will be often. He’ll get to remember it, and look past the unlikeliness of it, and remember.

That night. Somewhere in Italy in 2018.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tip of the hat to ivyblossom's lovely fic [It Isn't Strange Until You Think About It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305196), in which John Watson attempts to explain the very roundabout and unlikely way he and Sherlock became lovers, and which gave me the first line of this chapter.
> 
> And...we're done. What on earth was this strange thing that just occupied five months of my writing life? How did this...happen? Where...where am I? Toto? Is that you?  
> Look, I can't explain this at all. And I also can't explain away the very real possibility that there will be two more works in this series. Like, ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Who understands anything in this world.  
> Seriously, though, this pairing took hold of me. Made me wonder what if, and what if, and what if. If it did happen, what would they bring to one another? And I wrote this to find out. Thank you for coming along with me, and for suspending your disbelief regarding this unlikely encounter and even more unlikely pairing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you thought.


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